“But, father—­suppose he wants to kill Germans?” asked Lenore, earnestly.  How strangely she felt things about Dorn that she could not explain.

“Then, by George! it’s up to you, my girl,” replied her father, grimly.  “Understand me.  I’ve no sentiment about Dorn in this matter.  One good wheat-raiser is worth a dozen soldiers.  To win the war—­to feed our country after the war—­why, only a man like me knows what it ’ll take!  It means millions of bushels of wheat!...  I’ve sent my own boy.  He’ll fight with the best or the worst of them.  But he’d never been a man to raise wheat.  All Jim ever raised is hell.  An’ his kind is needed now.  So let him go to war.  But Dorn must be kept home.  An’ that’s up to Lenore Anderson.”

“Me!...  Oh—­how?” cried Lenore, faintly.

“Woman’s wiles, daughter,” said Anderson, with his frank laugh.  “When Dorn comes let me try to show him his duty.  The Northwest can’t spare young men like him.  He’ll see that.  If he has lost his wheat he’ll come down here to make me take the land in payment of the debt.  I’ll accept it.  Then he’ll say he’s goin’ to war, an’ then I’ll say he ain’t....  We’ll have it out.  I’ll offer him such a chance here an’ in the Bend that he’d have to be crazy to refuse.  But if he has got a twist in his mind—­if he thinks he’s got to go out an’ kill Germans—­then you’ll have to change him.”

“But, dad, how on earth can I do that?” implored Lenore, distracted between hope and joy and fear.

“You’re a woman now.  An’ women are in this war up to their eyes.  You’ll be doin’ more to keep him home than if you let him go.  He’s moony about you.  You can make him stay.  An’ it’s your future—­your happiness....  Child, no Anderson ever loves twice.”

“I cannot throw myself into his arms,” whispered Lenore, very low.

“Reckon I didn’t mean you to,” returned Anderson, gruffly.

“Then—­if—­if he does not ask me to—­to marry him—­how can I—­”

“Lenore, no man on earth could resist you if you just let yourself be sweet—­as sweet as you are sometimes.  Dorn could never leave you!”

“I’m not so sure of that, daddy,” she murmured.

“Then take my word for it,” he replied, and he got up from the chair, though still holding her.  “I’ll have to go now....  But I’ve shown my hand to you.  Your happiness is more to me than anythin’ else in this world.  You love that boy.  He loves you.  An’ I never met a finer lad!  Wal, here’s the point.  He need be no slacker to stay home.  He can do more good here.  Then outside of bein’ a wheat man for his army an’ his country he can be one for me.  I’m growin’ old, my lass!...  Here’s the biggest ranch in Washington to look after, an’ I want Kurt Dorn to look after it....  Now, Lenore, do we understand each other?”

She put her arms around his neck.  “Dear old daddy, you’re the wonderfulest father any girl ever had!  I would do my best—­I would obey even if I did not love Kurt Dorn....  To hear you speak so of him—­oh, its sweet!  It—­chokes me!...  Now, good-night....  Hurry, before I—­”